Chapter Twenty-one

‘THE DOWNSTAIRS GENTS won’t flush.’ Felicity’s husband, whose name, try as she might, Hetty couldn’t remember, appeared apologetically before her. ‘We have one at home, works perfectly well for family, won’t do a thing for strangers.’

Hetty gulped and tried to smile. This was the sort of thing that could turn a comparative success into abject failure. ‘Our one is usually fine. I’ll come and look.’

She should have asked Peter or even Connor, but finding them would have been a problem, they could be anywhere. The party had taken on a life of its own, and had spread far beyond its original boundaries.

It had been Connor who had suggested, a couple of days before, that if the weather was fine the guests might like to wander out of the french windows, on to the lawn. Everyone had agreed that, as the numbers had more than doubled since Mrs Makepiece had chosen the house for her party, this was a good idea. Only Hetty was negative enough to point out there was no lawn, only an extremely overgrown piece of land, which hadn’t seen a mower in its life. Nobody took any notice.

It had been fairly easy, with Peter’s expertise, to reinstate the french windows. What was harder was creating something for the french windows to open on to. No one had done anything about that side of the house in the grand restoration. It was a case of out of sight, not on the list of things to do.

But suddenly it had top-priority status. Scythes and whetstones were excavated from one of the many forgotten store-rooms. Connor and Peter honed the scythes to a lethal sharpness, and advanced on the waist-high nettles, thistles, teasels and multifarious umbellifers in the faint hope that there might be grass underneath.

Hetty was sure one of them would lose a hand or a foot during the process. Thus convinced, she took herself off so she wouldn’t be the one to have to pick up the severed limb, wrap it in frozen peas and carry it to the hospital.

Fortunately it wasn’t a large space, there was something vaguely green growing under the weeds, and nobody so much as cut themselves. The hedge that bounded it made an attractive backdrop. There were no flower-beds as such to worry about. By the time the area had been cut with a Flymo as well, it looked almost lawn-like.

Tables and chairs had been set out on the bits considered level enough. Hetty put cloths on the tables, set candles in jamjars and hung them in the branches of an old plum tree. More candles, in bottles, were put on the tables. A few nibbles in little dishes, and she was almost satisfied. Then she heard the Makepieces’ car, and had to dash off to greet them. But her backward glance as she went into the house was very pleasing. The hedge was full of Traveller’s Joy and honeysuckle, and filled the little area with scent. As long as the cars, to be parked just the other side, didn’t spoil it with their exhaust fumes, it was pleasantly romantic.

That had been an hour and two hundred people ago. Now Hetty hitched up her tight skirt and climbed up on to the lavatory seat, glad that Mr Makepiece had wandered off. She took the lid off the cistern and saw that the coupling had broken, so the chain pulled on nothing. A piece of string and a lot of very fiddly threading and tying later, and Hetty jumped down to test her work. The lavatory flushed noisily, and Hetty gave it a satisfied pat before pulling her skirt into place. It was, Phyllis had told her proudly, when Hetty had first arrived, a genuine Thomas Crapper.

‘I’ve been looking for you,’ said Connor. ‘Felicity wants you. Come on.’

She followed Connor as he beat a path through the crowd to where Felicity was holding court in the garden.

‘There seem to be an awful lot of people, darling. Did I really invite so many?’

‘I think so. They don’t look like gatecrashers.’

Felicity sighed. ‘No, and I do know most of them, by sight, anyway. I’m just wondering if there’s going to be enough room.’

‘They should all fit in all right.’

‘Oh, good. And here’s more champagne.’ She replaced her empty glass with a full one. ‘I think I’m entitled, don’t you?’

A little later, Peter and Connor managed to get the guests’ attention and summon them to supper. They picked their way across the yard to the barn, which looked rural and flower-filled enough to gladden the heart of any Thomas Hardy fan.

The trestle tables had bowls of bread, butter and salad, and bottles of wine all along their centre lines. The guests were to come up, a table at a time, for the substance of the meal. Hetty hadn’t had an opportunity to see the barn with all the food set out and, although she knew it would work, she was still surprised at how attractive and appetizing it all looked.

The Catering Corps, as they had become known, had done them proud. They had all put on pretty floral dresses and white aprons, and stood behind the plates of food, armed with serving spoons, ladles and forks. No one would leave the barn un-fed. In fact, few would leave it without feeling thoroughly stuffed.

Glistening pies, quiches, Scotch eggs and sausage rolls were piled next to dainty Italian puffs, tiny wholemeal blinis and filo-pastry baskets filled with smoked salmon. Huge joints of beef, pork and ham, cooked to perfection, were partially sliced. Whole salmons, glazed with cucumber, looking like pieces of modern art, competed with turkeys, boned and stuffed for the starring role.

One glance at Felicity’s face as she entered the barn told Hetty everything she wanted to know. ‘You done good,’ she murmured to the chief orchestrator of the feast as she moved to her place behind the egg mayonnaise and tiny balls of rice, cheese and vegetables, dipped in breadcrumbs and deep-fried. ‘It looks fabulous.’

The woman made a face. ‘It ought to. I never want to look at another Coronation Chicken. That’s why I’m up the veggie end.’ Then, seeing Hetty’s face fall, she went on. ‘I don’t mean it. I enjoyed myself, really I did. I’d love to do something like this again.’ She smiled pleasantly as the first guests began to filter in.

‘Thank goodness for that,’ said Hetty. ‘Egg mayonnaise for you, sir? Oh, hello, Alistair.’ She should have realized he’d be there. Anyone who’d slept under Felicity’s roof would definitely qualify for an invitation.

‘Hello, Hetty.’ He smiled. He’d obviously spotted her from afar, or he wouldn’t have come near the vegetarian section. ‘So this is what you’re doing now. Being a waitress.’

Hetty couldn’t think how she’d ever fallen in love with such a snob. She smiled. ‘That’s right. It’s nice to think I’ve gone up in the world since working for you. Now,’ she murmured from between clenched teeth, ‘would you like this on your plate, or on your shirt?’

Startled and speechless, Alistair moved on to something more carnivorous, and Hetty explained to her neighbour who he was. ‘I shouldn’t have said that to him really. But, what the hell, I’m tired.’

‘Quite tasty, though,’ said her companion, referring to Alistair.

‘Yes, but not substantial. Nothing to really get your teeth into.’

‘Not like that Connor.’

‘Er – no.’ Hetty wished she’d never started this conversation. ‘Have you tried the blinis? They’re lush.’

Hetty had just put a blini where her mouth was when two women, one obviously the daughter of the other, approached.

‘You might possibly be able to save our lives,’ said the younger one.

Hetty, unable to speak, nodded.

‘We’ve been terribly let down,’ said the older one.

Hetty swallowed. ‘Oh?’

‘You see, I’m getting married,’ said the younger one, ‘and the hotel where we were going to have the reception –’

‘And the evening disco –’

‘Had a fire. They had to cancel.’

‘I suppose they would have to,’ said Hetty.

‘So inconvenient.’

‘It wasn’t their fault, Mummy –’

‘No, but it’s our misfortune. And we’ve both fallen in love with this place.’

It was too much to hope they wanted to buy it. ‘And?’ Hetty checked the corner of her mouth with her tongue for traces of sour cream.

‘Well, could we have the reception here?’

‘Um –’ began Hetty.

‘We do realize it’s terribly short notice,’ said the mother.

‘But Felicity thought you might be able to help.’

‘I’m sure –’

‘The thing is, the date.’

‘Oh?’ Please God they didn’t want to get married next weekend.’

‘It’s August bank holiday Saturday.’

‘Oh –’

‘Of course, I realize you’re likely to be booked up –’

‘I’d need to check –’

‘It would be so wonderful.’ The bride-to-be was beginning to look tearful. ‘We’ve tried so many places, and none of them can help.’

‘I tell you what!’ The mother of the bride-to-be had a brainwave. ‘I’ll give you a deposit! Would five hundred pounds be enough to secure it?’

‘I think that would be fine,’ said Hetty. Not quite enough to pay off the loan, but a handsome amount.

The woman dived into her handbag and produced a chequebook. A few moments later, Hetty tucked it into her cleavage, and suddenly saw the world as a better place.

While the guests ate their first courses, the serving tables were rearranged. Savouries were put on to the table, for those wanting seconds, while most of the tables were cleared for the puddings.

Hetty knew that at some future date, when she was hungry and yearning for something delicious, she would look back on those puddings with regret.

Pavlovas, like Ascot hats, delicate, frilly with whorls of cream, dotted with fraises du bois, and clusters of individual chocolate mousses in chocolate cups, blobbed with cream and grated chocolate, snuggled up with bowls of trifle and summer puddings. Pyramids of profiteroles filled with cream and decorated with spun sugar and grapes, charlotte russes, malakofs, basins of fruit salad, mountains of strawberries and pagodas of cream-filled brandysnaps covered every available space. There was even bread-and-butter pudding for those wanting something ostensibly less rich.

But Hetty had neither time nor appetite to taste any of them. After she’d dolloped ‘a bit of everything’ on to thirty plates, a process that made a rather unattractive mess, she had to arrange for Ruby’s appearance. Those guests who still had room had a whole Stilton and a whole farmhouse Cheddar to get through.

Ruby, who’d been happily ensconced in a small stable, surrounded by sweet hay and buckets of calf-nuts, didn’t particularly want to have a garland put round her neck. Flowers, in her considered opinion, were to be eaten, not worn.

Peter was supposed to be helping Hetty with Ruby, but she realized he had probably got held up by his job of replacing all empty bottles with full ones. Everyone seemed to be drinking rather a lot.

At last Hetty got Ruby’s head out of the bucket and the halter half on. She was just wondering how she would know when to bring her in when Peter appeared, a prettily dressed child in tow.

‘Hi. This is Sophie, she’s Felicity’s great-niece. Felicity says, can she lead Ruby in to present her to John?’

‘Hello, Sophie. What a lovely dress!’

‘It’s Laura Ashley,’ said Sophie. ‘I don’t like it much. I prefer Clara’s dress. It’s green. And not frilly.’

Sophie was one of those children who could spot an adult unused to dealing with the young a mile off.

Aware that she was one of these, Hetty did her best. ‘But Clara’s not going to lead this lovely little calf, is she?’

‘No,’ Sophie said in agreement. ‘But I would have led it even if I’d had a green dress, wouldn’t I?’

Hetty gave up. ‘I expect so. Now here’s what we’ve got to do.’

She explained to Peter and Sophie that she would fight her way to Felicity’s side and ask her for a signal. With luck, John, on Felicity’s other side, wouldn’t hear what Hetty was saying over the din. Then Hetty would beckon to Sophie to lead in the calf.

It took Hetty a while to negotiate her way to Felicity for their conference, but they agreed that Felicity would signal to Phyllis, who would signal to Hetty and the others when they should appear.

Hetty, heartily relieved that she would not have to lead the calf herself, and thus be the centre of attention, did wonder if it would prove too much for Sophie, who, although strong of character, was relatively puny of build. ‘Supposing Ruby pulls her over?’ she whispered to Peter, as they waited until Phyllis came to the door to signal.

Peter shrugged. ‘Giving an animal as a present is a damn-fool idea to begin with.’

Hetty didn’t reply. He was probably right, but it was a sweet thought, even so.

Phyllis appeared at the door. Hetty, Peter, Sophie and Ruby crept up to it, Ruby oblivious of the need to keep quiet, pulling like a train.

There were speeches going on inside. Hetty heard her name being taken in vain, or maybe she was being thanked. There was laughter, applause and, once, a loud drumming on the tables with glasses or bottles. Hetty hoped everyone had eaten a lot, to sop up the alcohol.

Then came virtual silence, which Hetty took to mean that Felicity was making her speech. There was laughter, Phyllis beckoned, and Hetty pushed Sophie forward.

‘You’re on!’

‘What am I supposed to do?’

‘Sophie! We’ve been through all this! Lead Ruby up to Uncle . . . you know! It’s simple! Off you go.’

Ruby seemed to have understood her instructions at any rate. She set off at a tremendous pace. Through the doors she went, pulling her pretty dairymaid with her.

An explosion of laughter greeted this entrance, and Ruby, hearing it, changed her mind and headed back towards the door, dragging Sophie behind her.

What Ruby hadn’t reckoned on was that so many of the guests would be young, rugby-playing types, who, suitably primed, welcomed the chance of a ruck. There was even a phalanx of Young Farmers. So, as Ruby, followed by Sophie on her stomach, headed for the calf-nuts, five young men tackled her to the ground.

Thus it was that Ruby, a pedigree Devon Red heifer, was presented to her new master in the arms of someone whom he barely knew, but who at least wasn’t crying.

‘It’s a Devon Red, darling!’ shouted Felicity over the noise. ‘They call them Devon Rubies. And it’s our ruby-wedding anniversary!’ She didn’t actually say, ‘Geddit?’ but it was implied.

Up until that point, Hetty had had no time to feel nervous about the prospect of singing. She had so much else on her mind, there was no space to spare for anxiety. Now, in the sudden quiet of the great hall, she felt paralysed with fear.

Her limbs would hardly move her as she adjusted tables, made sure there were enough chairs. She fiddled with candles and cloths, not allowing her gaze to venture near the piano, large and threatening at the end of the room.

By the time Connor found her she was shaking, from sheer terror, hunger, and what felt like nervous exhaustion. She stood with her back to the piano, her head in her hands.

‘Hetty?’ His voice was gentle and for a moment she thought she might cry. ‘Are you OK?’ She shook her head.

‘Come with me.’ He put his arm round her and propelled her out of the room into the little ante-room where they had discussed their songs. He took out a flask of whisky from behind a vase of flowers and poured a large measure into a glass. ‘Have you had anything to eat?’

Hetty shook her head again, unable to speak, let alone sing. ‘Good,’ said Connor. ‘Drink this.’

Surprised, but obedient, Hetty drank. When she put down the empty glass, coughing slightly, he took her into his arms and kissed her.

It was a long, deep, penetrating kiss, which added to the lightheadedness Hetty had been feeling before. His arms were hard and firm about her ribs, containing her anxiety with their strength. When he finally let her go, she was staggering, but a great deal steadier than she had been.

‘Now, slap my face,’ he ordered. ‘It’ll make you feel much better.’

Hetty smiled. ‘I don’t want to slap your face. I feel better anyway.’

‘You won’t get another chance to do it.’

‘I’ll forgo my privilege.’

He grinned back, mischief dancing in his eyes. They both knew this was a suspension of their hostilities, not a truce. ‘Good. I didn’t really want to appear with a swollen jaw. I’ll get my music sorted out.’

‘Your music?’ Hetty called as she followed him out of the room. ‘I thought you couldn’t read music?’

He glanced over his shoulder at her. ‘I never said I couldn’t, I just usually prefer not to. Now, have you got your list of songs?’

This caused Hetty’s new-found confidence to waver. ‘No.’

‘Never mind, I’ve got mine. Now, let’s have a little sing until they come in.’

Connor didn’t seem to believe in telling his soloist what she was to sing – instead, he just played a long introduction. His first choice, thought Hetty as she recognized it, was quite apposite: ‘It Had to be You’.

Hetty and Connor continued to perform, softly, almost to themselves, while people got into their seats, found their drinks, went to the loo, fetched their wives’ handbags, and, to Hetty’s secret horror, lit cigarettes.

‘Will you be OK?’ Connor asked softly as he saw the couple on the front table both light up.

Hetty, who was prepared to blame her entire bad performance – if she gave one – on this couple, nodded. ‘I’ll be hoarse tomorrow anyway,’ she mumbled back, as Connor’s musical fingers fiddled about in the upper octaves.

‘I think it’s time we got this lot to settle down.’

Hetty stopped singing, and Connor began playing more loudly, and gradually the noise quietened.

‘You’re a genius. Have you done this before?’ asked Hetty, out of the corner of her mouth.

‘Course. What do you think I am – a fucking amateur?’

This expletive caused Hetty’s mouth to open nice and wide for her first song.

Music flowed from her that night. The whisky and Connor’s kiss seemed to have released all her tension, so there were no obstructions between how she heard the music in her head and what came out. Her voice seemed perfectly flexible, in tune, obedient to every whim. And in this matter, if none other, Connor was the perfect partner.

It wasn’t a large space, as performance spaces go, but it was full of people, who absorbed the sound and were prone to twitching. Still Hetty managed to fill it with sound apparently without effort.

I’ll never sing like this again, she thought. Never again would alcohol and kisses seduce her voice into such a relaxed, natural performance. It’s like making love with music, instead of bodies. The effect was almost as glorious.

The audience loved it. She and Connor got through their programme before Hetty felt they’d really got going, and were asked for more. They consulted each other, and performed a couple more songs. Then they stopped, refusing all entreaties to continue. They were only an interlude, after all, not the whole focus for the evening. Their applause, Hetty noticed with satisfaction, was almost as loud as Ruby’s had been.

‘That was wonderful.’ Ruby’s new owner caught Hetty as she followed Connor out of the room. ‘The whole evening’s been wonderful. And I want to give you this cheque.’

Hetty demurred, trying not to snatch it from his hand.

‘I can remember how hard it is to get a new business going. And if people don’t pay their bills promptly your cash flow is all to pot, and you’re sunk. So I’ve written you an interim cheque, something on account to keep you going until you’ve worked out the final figure and sent us the bill.’

Hetty thanked his departing back and put the cheque to join the other one. Then she went to find Connor.

She found him in the garden, sitting at the one table left there, playing with the wax that ran down the side of the candle.

‘You must be shattered,’ he said, pulling out a second chair.

‘Mmm, but it went well, didn’t it?’

‘Very. We could set up in business as a cabaret act.’

‘But we won’t,’ said Hetty. There was a tiny silence. This was one of the other things they agreed on.

‘Have a drink.’ Connor had concealed a bottle and two glasses under a hedge. He eased the cork out with his thumbs. ‘It’s not terribly cold, I’m afraid.’

‘It’s delicious.’ Hetty closed her eyes. In a minute she would tell Connor about the two cheques, stashed away in her cleavage. But now she felt too tired to talk.

After what they had just shared they couldn’t resume hostilities, but nor could they pretend they’d always been the best of friends. Hetty’s eyes refused to open. In a minute she and Connor would be interrupted by several dozen people. She’d have to tell him now, while she had an opportunity.

‘A man’s coming to buy the car tomorrow.’ Connor broke the silence. ‘He’s been badgering me to sell to him for years. It’ll be enough to pay off the debt.’

‘But, Connor, you don’t have to do that! We’ve earned enough today to pay off the debt, and I’ve got two cheques –’

‘That’s not all profit.’

‘I know that, but some of it is, and –’

‘You have to give a cheque four working days to clear. I’ll be paid in cash. Phyllis is lending me her car so I can go up to London and get those bastards off our backs for ever. Besides, I owe you about eight hundred.’

‘Do you?’

‘You sold your car, didn’t you? Used the money to make up an instalment? You must have that back.’

Hurt and horrified, Hetty stared at Connor. ‘But not now! You don’t have to sell your car to pay me back for mine. I can easily wait. Anyway, it was only five hundred.’

‘It’s my car, my uncle’s debt, I can pay it off how I like.’

‘But don’t you see, this is a quite unnecessary sacrifice! I’ve got cheques –’

‘There’s no point in arguing. I’ve made my decision.’ He got up, set his glass down on the table, and stalked off into the house.

Hetty watched him go. She was shaking with anger. He was so insufferably proud and arrogant he’d rather sell his car than accept that the house could earn its keep. Her contribution was worth nothing, simply disregarded. All the hard work, the wheeling and dealing, the anxiety – everything she had gone through had all been for nothing.

At that moment, she hated him, not for changing from the wonderful, inspired accompanist back to the sort of man who didn’t care about his heritage, but because he couldn’t be wrong.

She was concentrating on getting herself up to her bedroom without losing her temper on the way when Sophie came up, her dress awry and her hair in rat’s-tails.

‘Ruby’s got into the barn and eaten all the flower-arrangements.’

Hetty looked at her blankly. She hadn’t a clue who Ruby was. ‘Has she? How odd. I hope she isn’t sick on the carpet.’

Sophie opened her mouth to explain but Hetty had already left.